i love(d) you
by funfanfin
Summary: A relationship that only lasted five months and ended four years ago shouldn't still be affecting her, but…it wasn't just any relationship. It wasn't just any breakup. It wasn't just any ex. It was Bellamy. (Bellarke Exes AU)
1. Chapter 1

Clarke finds the jacket— _his stupid, ugly, brown jacket—_ four years after they break up.

It's wedged in her closet, where it hangs innocently between two dresses, taunting her. Narrowing her eyes, she crosses her arms and stares at it, wondering how, of all things, she forgot to give _that stupid jacket_ back.

After standing there for a stubborn half hour, she yanks the jacket off its hanger and brings it to the coat rack by her front door. Despite the fact that she held it far enough away from her face, she still accidentally catches a whiff of _his_ cologne.

The memories that come rushing back are rosy-tinged bastards.

She curses her olfactory senses and her penchant for nostalgia and _him_ , and hangs the jacket unceremoniously by her front door. With a sigh, she heads to her bathroom and sprays perfume until it hangs in a thick cloud around her head.

It's still not enough to mask the memories still stubbornly playing in her mind.

* * *

"Just give it to Octavia. She'll give it back to him," Raven suggests, stealing one of her fries and waving it in the air nonchalantly.

Clarke raises an eyebrow. "Octavia's in Nepal, in case you forgot. What's she going to do? FedEx the jacket to him halfway across the world just because I asked her to?" She shakes her head. "That's not going to happen. Plus, I'm pretty sure she's still not talking to him."

"Seriously?"

"She wasn't when we were—" she cuts herself off, sighing. "She wasn't a few years ago," she corrects with a terse smile.

The look Raven gives her is spectacularly unimpressed. "When you and Bellamy were _dating_ you mean?" She rolls her eyes. "Why the hell are you so dramatic about it? Your breakup was nowhere _near_ the levels of uncomfortable that mine and Finn's was, and it had a hell of a lot more closure than mine and Wick's had."

Clarke shudders involuntary. "I know. It's just—you _know_ , Raven. You know how we were."

"Ridiculously in love? Perfect for each other? Soulmates?'

She glares at her. "Raven."

"What?" She shrugs irreverently. "You know I'm right. Look, I know it sucked for you. It sucked for all of us. Have you noticed that we haven't _all_ hung out as a group since you two broke up?" You guys—" Frustrated, she shakes her head. "When you guys broke up, it affected all of us. It changed everything."

"I know," Clarke says, and it sounds like an apology. In some ways, it is. "I just—I wish things had turned out differently."

"We all do," Raven mutters, uncharacteristically soft. She steals another fry and expertly changes the subject to the unfairly attractive CEO of Azgeda Corp that she has to see every single day now that they've hired her for some 'X-files level top secret shit', as Raven so eloquently describes.

Afterwards, Raven grabs Clarke's hand and pulls her around.

"Look, Clarke, I can take the stupid jacket back to Bellamy," she offers, sincere.

"It's been four years." Clarke smiles, squeezing Raven's hand. "I'm an adult. He's an adult. I can handle seeing him."

* * *

Clarke can't handle seeing him.

And she's _tried_ , she really has _._ She's driven down his street more times than she'd like to admit, his jacket riding shotgun, with every intent to stop the car by his ugly, pale yellow mailbox.

She'll slow down, tires grazing the curb, and glance at the house. She'll imagine him stepping out into the golden evening sun, all mussed curls and broad shoulders and wicked smirk and it's _too much_. Muttering curses under her breath, she'll throw the jacket in the backseat and angrily accelerate to the 25mph speed limit, accidentally blowing through the stop sign at the end of his street, again.

Their breakup hadn't been that bad, it was true. It was just so—unexpectedly final. Clarke doesn't even really remember what started the beginning of their end.

What she does remember is this: her voice, cold and bitter, telling him that he would be better without her; without a girl who could hardly say the words _I love you_ without them feeling like a damning sentence in her throat. He deserved better than a girl who could only ever give him part of an already broken heart.

" _I can't do this anymore, Bellamy."_

She remembers the look on his face. Vulnerable, stricken with emotion, his brown eyes blinking at her in hurt disbelief.

 _"_ _That's it, then. Just like that, you've decided we're done."_

She remembers how, after her bags were packed, he asked her to stay—gently, desperately, tragically—the way his voice trembled in a way she hadn't ever heard before, the way her heart twitched at the sound.

The doorknob had been cold to her touch. Through blurred vision and with a sob caught in her throat, she croaked a goodbye and left.

A relationship that only lasted five months and ended four years ago shouldn't still be affecting her, but…it wasn't just any relationship. It wasn't just any breakup.

It wasn't just any ex.

It was _Bellamy._

It was strange, honestly, how they had somehow managed to avoid each other for four years even while living in the same city. She'd seen glimpses of him at parties and random coffee shops, sure, but they hadn't spoken or even said hello in four years.

The only way Clarke knew anything about him at all anymore was thanks to their mutual friends. They'd mention carefully, casually, what he'd been up to. It was how she knew that he had graduated with his doctorate in the Classics, and had landed his dream job at Ark University.

And she was sure it was how Bellamy had known she had dropped out of med school to reopen the art gallery her father managed before his death.

He hadn't attended the fundraising gala, but his name was included on the list of contributors. She had stumbled over his name during her closing, thank-you speech, and the taste of his name in her mouth after so many years couldn't even be drowned with a _generous_ amount of alcohol, she quickly learned afterwards.

That night had been one of the many, many nights she had stopped and asked herself if she had made a mistake leaving him all those years ago. She'd wonder if _he_ was the reason she still couldn't move on after _four damn years._ She'd ask herself if he was the reason all of her one-night stands seemed to all have the same dark, curly hair and dimpled chins and warm skin.

Their eyes were always wrong, though, she'd noticed. She'd never been able to find someone with eyes like his, eyes darker than a night sky whose stars had been stolen and draped across his cheeks.

She definitely can't handle seeing him again.

And so the jacket sits smugly in her car, judging her. It's starting to lose its rich, musky smell, leaving only the distinctive smell of cigarette smoke on it. She had long quit smoking and, according to their mutual friends, so had he, but the smell of it on his jacket makes her tongue taste like nicotine and her lips tingle with the memory of smoke-filled kisses on the fire escape of his old apartment. It makes her mind buzz with memories of a time when their biggest problems were college midterms not being able to decide on a matching Halloween costume. Back when the future was still colored with words like _we_ and _together_ and _us_ and _ours_.

A week later, when Raven asks her if she dropped the jacket off, Clarke shakes her head and tells her to ask her again tomorrow. The pained, frustrated tone of her voice is enough to make even Raven not push the subject.

* * *

It's eleven o'clock at night when she finally musters up the courage to give the jacket back to him. She knows this random burst of bravery won't last long, so she spits out her toothpaste, pulls on some pants, and grabs her keys.

The air outside of her house is chilly, a late-Autumn breeze trembling through the trees. She shivers. Almost as an afterthought, she shrugs the jacket on.

 _Just because it's cold, and I don't want to run back inside and grab a jacket,_ she justifies to herself, but she knows it's a bold-faced lie. The jacket rests comfortably on her shoulders, and she immediately knows it was a mistake to put it on.

Still, she doesn't take it off.

The drive to his house is quiet, expectant. She doesn't turn on the radio or blast music from her phone. The windows are rolled down, and she feels the cold air rush through her hair and realizes why she loves fall so much.

It was when they met, six years ago on a random Tuesday on campus, walking home after the party they were at got crashed by the cops. They flirted half the way home, before Clarke realized that _he_ was the Political Science T.A. who refused to give her an A on a paper she had spent four days working on.

They argued, argued some more, and argued even more as time passed until they called a 'temporary' truce for Octavia's sake. That 'temporary' truce led to a long-lasting friendship, one that only solidified as the semesters flew by. And one drunken October night, they ended up making out behind Raven's Jeep. She couldn't remember if he had been the first one to say it or her, but one of them had accidentally confessed to being in love with the other, and they'd been together ever since.

Until their breakup, of course.

Clarke pulls her car into his driveway. She places it into park confidently, despite the fact that her fingers are shaking when she pulls the keys out of the ignition. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she steps out of the car.

Her steps against the pavement echo in the still night air. It takes her two minutes to decide whether she should knock or ring the doorbell. In the end, she rings the doorbell, listening to it chime through the house mutedly on the other side of the door.

Rolling on the balls of her feet, she twists her fingers anxiously.

"This is crazy. You're crazy," she mutters to herself, through grit teeth.

When not even ten seconds have passed, she decides that he must be asleep and chickens out. She's halfway to her car when she hears the front door swing open.

She stops in her tracks, refusing to look back at him. She knows that once she does, every feeling, every memory, _every_ suppressed emotion from the past four years will come swinging back at her with an unimpeded vengeance.

"Clarke?"

His voice, confused as it is, sounds like music to her ears. It's deep and hoarse, like he's just woken up, and it reminds her of a lifetime ago, of lazy Sunday mornings waking up curled beside him in a tiny bed, the sun creeping up the walls of his book-littered dorm room.

Her traitorous body _begs_ for her to turn around and look at him. She takes a deep breath, and turns.

It shouldn't surprise her that he's still annoying beautiful. Maybe even more so, than before, which, honestly, isn't fair. His hair is longer, she notices. Messier, too. Her fingers twitch at her sides with the unholy desire to run through the inky curls like they used to, to pull the ends and make him groan.

There's an Ark University t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, and plaid pajama bottoms resting low on his hips. Long fingers slide out of his pocket to push clunky glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Finally, she meets his eyes. The relief that courses through her is practically intoxicating. She could die happy now, knowing that his eyes are still as warm as she remembered, that her memories didn't exaggerate their sun-warmed-earth color. His eyes are just as vulnerable as she remembers, just as expressive, and she hates how much it feels like coming home.

"Bellamy," she says, hoping he doesn't notice the way his name is still precious in her mouth, still fond on her lips, despite everything.

"What…what are you doing here?"

"I—You got new glasses."

Reflexively, he readjusts his glasses, and the action is so damn endearing and familiar she could cry.

His eyebrows furrow. "What?"

"Never mind." She shakes her head, clearing her mind. "I was just—I was cleaning my closet out the other day and I found your jacket."

He looks at her, expectant, and her eyes widen with realization.

"Right," she mutters, shrugging the jacket off of her shoulders, stepping up towards him. Smiling shakily, she holds it out to him. "I figured you might want it back."

"Clarke," he wets his lips, and she forces herself not to notice. "I—It's been four years."

"And eight months," she says automatically. At his unreadable expression, she clears her throat and gives a nervous half-laugh. "I mean—what I meant to say was, I know. I just—I thought you might want it back."

Hesitantly, he takes it from her. Their fingers brush lightly against each other in the process, and Clarke wonders if it's medically possible to literally feel adrenaline coursing through your veins. Maybe if she would have finished medical school, she'd know.

If he notices her flustered state, he doesn't show it, casually turning the jacket over in his hands.

"I figured I just lost this when you moved out of my place," he says. She smiles, strained. The air between them turns awkward, like she expected it would. He clears his throat. "Thanks. For bringing it back."

"No problem." She runs her hands over her now-bare arms, suppressing a shiver that has more to do with their close proximity than the cool autumn air.

He notices, stepping towards her instinctively. She resists the urge to step back. Or, the even more dangerous urge: to step forward. Tentatively, he holds the jacket back out to her.

"It's freezing outside," he says. "You'll get a cold."

"That kind of defeats the point of me bringing it back to you, doesn't it?" she asks, smiling at his instinct-driven impulsiveness. It was half the reason she fell in love with him in the first place; his not-so-secret tendency to nurture and protect his family and friends. Her voice light, teasing, she adds, "I mean, if I take it, we'll just have to repeat this whole awkward experience again tomorrow."

He huffs a laugh. "Right."

They look at each other, smiling like they're sharing some sort of twisted inside joke.

Clarke looks away before she can say something stupid. "I should—"

"How are you?" he asks, surprising her.

She bites back a smile. "I'm…okay. You?"

"I've been better," he admits, and the small smile he gives her makes her stomach flip, even after all this time. "How's—how's the gallery?"

"It's doing amazing," she tells him, proud. "I never…thanked you. For donating."

He shakes his head, casual. "It wasn't a big deal. I've been wanting to go see it, but—" he breaks off, the explanation clearly unnecessary.

She nods at his shirt. "How's Ark U?"

"It's unbelievable. I never imagined I'd actually be teaching there."

"I always knew you would," she confesses, genuine. Before he can reply, she asks, "Is it everything you dreamed it would be?"

His smile falters. Glancing up, he studies her, soft and slow enough to make her heart thrum in her chest.

"Not everything."

She nods, blinking. Her throat grows tight, and she knows that if she stays any longer, she'll either burst into tears or throw herself into his arms, and she's not sure she would survive either. She starts to turn when he takes another step towards her.

"Clarke," he breathes, voice almost reverent in the quiet air. "I—" he looks at her, a million words trapped behind his eyes, begging to be let out. He hesitates, drawing in a breath. "It's good to see you."

She smiles. "It's good to see you too, Bell."

The nickname rolls off her tongue, easily, naturally, perfectly, but in the end it's just a cruel reminder of the reality of who they are now. They're not lovers. They're not even friends, not anymore. She looks at him, apologetic, and says, "I should—I should go."

"Right," he exhales.

Jumping down the steps, she pats her pockets down for her keys. Realization strikes her and she turns back agonizingly slow.

"I, uh, I left my keys in the jacket."

He blinks.

"Oh." Fishing them out of the pocket, he steps down and hands them to her. "Here."

"Thanks," she says, feeling more than ridiculous about the entire situation; her showing up near midnight with a jacket he probably forgot he even owned.

He shifts where he stands, hands clenching at his sides like he wants to reach out and stop her from leaving.

"I'll see you around?" he asks, careful.

She hesitates, her fingers curled around the door handle to her car.

"See you around," she replies, trying not to notice how hopeful they both sound.

On the drive back to her house, she cranks the radio up to full volume, trying to block out every thought of him from her mind. She narrowly avoids the potholes in the road, running a hand through her disheveled hair and wondering whether she should cry, scream, or laugh.

In the end, she just collapses on her couch without bothering to remove her shoes, and settles on sobbing herself to sleep.

She dreams about him, that night. It's a stupidly happy dream, the kind where your traitorous heart paints a picture of perfection that your dream-hazed mind can't realize is too good to be true. She wakes up, heart emptier than ever, the sound of her pain louder than ever in her quiet living room.

She calls in sick, bundles herself up in a shield of blankets, and watches Netflix until the desperate aching quiets.

It doesn't, but when Netflix prompts _Are you still watching?_ she turns off the TV and heads to the kitchen to make her dad's 'be happy' pancakes, the ones with chocolate chips arranged in a more-often-than-not lopsided smile, and pretends that she feels better.

A/N-I'd say that reviews are better than bellamy blake's freckles, but we all know that's a boldfaced lie.

still, reviews are encouraged, welcomed, and appreciated. 3

cry about how much you love bellamy blake with me on tumblr- funfanfin


	2. Chapter 2

"How'd it go? Seeing him?"

Clarke levels an unimpressed glare at Monty. "Who told you?"

He avoids her eyes, sliding a bag of Chinese takeout to her. It's from that little hole-in-the-wall restaurant, the one halfway across town that always seems to be buzzing with hungry customers.

The bastard. He knows it's her favorite.

"Does it matter?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

"Raven."

"Yeah, it was Raven." He shrugs, innocent. "Come on, Clarke. We spent all last week rigging up wires and lights for the Anniversary Gala and spent all weekend testing and running code for the City of Light exhibit. You've seen us run codes before. That stuff takes forever. And believe it or not, Raven and I do talk about things beside VR and AI."

Clarke sighs, taking the chopsticks he's offering her and snapping them apart a little too violently.

"So…" he slides over the cartons. "How'd it go?"

"You're ridiculous. Fine. It was fine."

"That's it?" He raises an eyebrow.

"That's it. I showed up at his house. I returned the jacket. It was about as awkward as you think it would be." She sifts the rice with her chopsticks absentmindedly. "He, uh, he asked me how the gallery was doing. How I was doing."

Monty, unsurprisingly, perks up. "That's good, right?"

"I mean, it's not bad," she concedes. "I don't know, Monty. I don't know what to think about it. I don't know if there even is anything to think about in the first place. What? Don't give me that look."

"I may or may not have put him on the invite list for next Friday."

She chokes on a dumpling. "What?"

Monty slides her drink over, his apologetic smile not sorry in the slightest. "Raven and I are sending out invitations around four. Let me know if you want to add anyone else to the list."

He steals one of her dumplings and leaves before Clarke can think of an appropriate reprimand.

Alone in her office, she glances at her calendar. One week. She has one week to write a speech for the gallery's Anniversary Gala, and, apparently, one week to prepare herself to see him again.

* * *

 _One week later_

"…and I'd like to thank Monty Green and Raven Reyes, who never let me forget just how technologically incapable I am." The crowd whoops, and Clarke smiles. "Those two will save the world one day, mark my words. Thank you to everyone who came today, your contributions and support have made this all possible. My father—" her voice falters, and she finds her mother sitting in the crowd with Marcus. Her eyes are glistening, and her smile is proud, supportive. Clarke smiles back, and draws in a breath to continue.

She sees him, then. Bellamy. He's sitting in the fourth row, dark eyes contemplative and solemn and locked on her. He nods his head a little, a small gesture she knows is meant for her.

She's transported back to six years ago in an instant, back to when she had to speak at her father's funeral. At the time, it had been his comforting, constant presence in the crowd that helped her get through the speech without dissolving into an unintelligible mess of a grieving daughter. He'd always been there to support her, to protect her, to challenge her. Even before she realized she was in love with him, he had always been there.

And now…now he's here. Even after she left him. He's here.

A comforting, constant presence.

Someone in the crowd coughs pointedly. Clarke tears her eyes away and clears her throat.

"My father opened this gallery twelve years ago because he believed in the idea that art and culture could unite a community and educate generations. Because of each and every one of you, his purpose lives on. Thank you."

The crowd applauds, but she can hardly hear the sound of it over the buzzing microphone in her hands. The stage lights are too bright, too hot on her flushed skin. As Monty takes the microphone from her to direct the crowd to the open bar and new exhibits, she makes her way to the back door.

The cold air rushes into her lungs and she leans on the edge of the balcony with a relief-filled exhale. Shaky fingers swim through her over-filled purse and she finds a half-full pack of cigarettes from ages ago.

Sliding one out, she twirls it between her fingers, considering it. It was kind of ridiculous, how such a small, slender thing could be the source of such pain, such perfect destruction.

"I thought you quit."

She doesn't have to turn to know who it is. His voice is permanently imprinted in the valleys of her mind, an echo she can never quite reach.

"I did quit," she replies, firm to keep her voice from shaking. "I quit the second they diagnosed him with lung cancer."

Bellamy moves to stand beside her. He leans his forearms on the railing, and she catches the glint of cufflinks from his dress shirt. "He would've loved it. Your speech."

She glances at him. "I didn't know you owned a suit."

He plucks the cigarette from her fingers, dangling it between his teeth lazily, his lips curving into a familiar smirk. "I didn't know you owned a Monet."

She rolls her eyes. "I don't _own_ it. It's on loan from a museum on the East Coast." She slides her hands along the cold metal of the railing. "I didn't think you'd come."

Flipping the cigarette between his fingers, he turns to face her. His eyes sweep up her body, and she swears his gaze lingers on the sheer fabric hugging her waist and on the drooping, extravagant neckline of her dress.

"I didn't think you'd invite me."

"I didn't," she mutters half-heartedly. "Monty did."

Bellamy huffs a laugh, and her heart lifts at the sound. She studies him. He seems…lighter, somehow. It should make her happy, but instead it makes her want to cry. He is happier without her, just like she knew he would be.

"You're the reason it's here, you know," she says. "The Monet."

The confusion is clear on his face.

"Me?"

"Yeah. Uh, senior year of college? You took me to that art museum and spent like, four hours just telling me about Monet and how he'd been your favorite artist since your mom got you a bookmark from the library with one of his paintings on it and I don't know I just—" she wets her lips. "I was trying to find a new piece and they offered me all of these beautiful paintings I'd be stupid to refuse and one smaller Monet and I—there was no question as to which one I was going to choose."

She feels her face heating up. Her mind mercilessly reminds her that they're not even friends anymore and that this is the most they've spoken in literal years. She has the strangest urge to apologize to him for slipping so easily back into the intimate familiarity she lost her right to being a part of when they broke up four years ago.

He shifts his weight.

"I thought you would have forgotten that by now."

"Well I haven't," she retorts, self-conscious. It's silent for a few moments, and Clarke clears her throat. "Do you ever—"

"Bellamy?" A girl with curly hair and a wicked grin walks towards them. "I've been looking for you."

Hands in his pockets, he steps away from Clarke, towards the girl. "Gina, hey. This is Clarke. She owns the gallery."

Gina raises an eyebrow. "You're Clarke Griffin?"

"That would be me," she replies, uncomfortable with the turn of the situation.

"I've heard a lot about you and the gallery," she says, sparing her a glance and holding out her hand. "I'm Gina."

Clarke shakes her hand. Inhaling, she forces her breathing to stay steady for a few more minutes until she can leave. Of course he has a girlfriend. Of course he's moved on. Of course she's a complete and total idiot who, obviously, has watched too many cheesy romantic comedies lately and has forgotten how the real world works.

In the real world, her father dies of lung cancer when he's 42. In the real world, Finn makes her the other woman. In the real world, Lexa dies and Clarke can't stop it.

In the real world, her soulmate is with someone else.

"I have to—I need to take care of…gallery stuff…" she trails off, offering a shaky smile and ignoring Bellamy's voice calling her name.

She leaves them standing by the balcony. Her heels clack against the ground and her throat yearns for sharp, mind-numbing alcohol. Lots of it.

* * *

"Clarke," _he_ says, too soft for her liking. "How many of those have you had?"

She tenses. She's already sent Raven and Monty away with the promise she'd get an Uber home. She can send him away too.

"I don't know and I don't care," she breathes, and that's how she knows she's in for a rough night. She can't even muster up the energy for a sarcastic retort, which is not a good sign for anyone.

"You okay?" he asks, sliding into the seat beside her.

She scoffs. "Why the hell do you care? Why are you even here? What, did you think that me bringing your jacket back was code for 'Let's be friends again'?" She sighs, deep and exhaustive. "Because it wasn't."

Bellamy slides the bottle away from her, unaffected by her jabs. "I see you're still a bitter drunk."

"And I see—I see you're still sitting here," she weakly shoots back. She glances around at the empty ballroom, but the world is spinning. "Where's Gina?"

He cocks an eyebrow, amused. She shouldn't have asked, she knows.

"She went home."

"To your house?"

"No," he says slowly, studying her. "She lives in the city."

She looks at him. The alcohol buzzing in her veins make him look even more handsome, which is again, unfair. The lazy lights of the bar make his lips look even softer than normal, and she hates him for it. She hates herself more, though, for even noticing.

"Wanna know something?" she asks.

"Sure."

"I wish we never met."

He bristles at that. "You do?"

"Yeah." She curls her fingers around the neck of the drink, the cool condensation licking at her palm. She's too drunk to stop the words from escaping her lips. "Because I can't—I can't do anything anymore because you're always—you're always there in the back of my mind and I—I hate it. I hate that you can just come here with your stupid—your stupid brown eyes and your stupid curly hair and your stupid smirk like nothing ever happened." She sighs. "Like you didn't ruin me."

Bellamy is silent for a few moments. He traces random patterns on the surface of the bar, jaw clenching.

"You left _me_ , Clarke," he reminds her, voice far too soft and resigned.

She feels the alcohol burning back up her throat with a vengeance. Her vision is blurred, and she grips the bottle hard to keep herself from trembling.

"I—" she starts, but the words are caught in a grief wracked sob. She puts her head in her hands and exhales shakily.

"Come on." He grabs her purse and helps her up gently. "Let's get you home."

They stumble out to his car. She clings to him, babbling about how she's sorry her mascara is leaving dark streaks on his nice suit. He placates her with comforting words and helps her into the passenger seat. He hesitates before moving over to the driver's side.

She knows she's a mess, and not a hot one at that. Her makeup is smeared, she smells like vodka, and her hair is falling out haphazardly from the pretty updo it was in earlier. Still, he looks at her like he can't believe she's actually there. He brushes a loose strand of hair away from her face, almost as an afterthought.

"I…I won't puke in your car again," she slurs impulsively, and blacks out.

With a tired half-laugh, half-sigh, he makes sure her seatbelt is secured and that she has all her things, and gets in the driver's seat.

* * *

Clarke doesn't wake up to the smell of bacon. She doesn't wake up to the sound of Bellamy humming to the tune of that one song his mom used to sing him. She doesn't wake up to the taste of his lips rough against her own or to the feel of his calloused palms gripping her thighs.

She wakes up alone. As usual.

She's still in her dress from last night, sans heels, but she's cocooned in blankets. There's a glass of water and an aspirin on her nightstand, a note set delicately beside it.

The chaotic, slanted handwriting is immediately recognizable to her.

 _In case you don't remember—_

 _You drank too much last night after the gala and passed out in my car. Don't worry, nothing happened. I didn't want to cross any lines or anything, so I'm sorry you're waking up in your clothes from last night. Drink the water and take the aspirin. You'll feel better._

 _-Bellamy_

 _P.S.- I found this in the pocket of the jacket. Thought you might want it back._

 _P.S.S-There's fresh coffee in the pot._

Clarke nearly drops the glass of water when she sees what's beside the note.

It's her father's watch. The old, clunky, broken watch that she thought she lost years ago after a group roadtrip to the Redwoods.

She clenches her hand around it, closing her eyes and relishing in the familiar feel of it. The cold edges melt into her palm and she lets out a long exhale. She puts it back on and immediately she feels like she can breathe easier, like she can think more clearly now that it's been returned to its rightful spot on her wrist.

She glances back at the note.

Don't worry, nothing happened.

With a heavy sigh, she ignores the pounding in her skull and changes into some comfortable clothes. She makes her way downstairs, following the smell of coffee and ready to eat her weight in pancakes.

Before she can think twice, she types out a quick text to Bellamy (she never could delete his number).

 **Clarke:** sorry for last night.

 **Clarke:** and thanks. for the watch. you didn't have to return it but it means a lot to me that you did.

 **Clarke:** this is Clarke, by the way. sorry if I ruined your date last night.

She sits on an anxiety-induced terror for the next twenty minutes until she decides he probably won't reply to her and lies to herself that she's okay with that. Her phone vibrates, finally, and she nearly dies of relief.

 **Bellamy:** Hey, hope you're feeling better. I know how much that watch means to you. I'm glad we finally found it. Don't worry about last night, Clarke. Gina wasn't my date. She works at a bar off-campus and has mentioned wanting to see the gallery more than once so I gave her my plus-one ticket.

Clarke stares at the text for five full minutes, processing. From the fact that he said 'I'm glad WE finally found it' to the realization that Gina wasn't his date, she feels like she needs to sit down. Her heart his pounding ridiculously fast and she idly wonders if texting an ex-you-maybe-probably-most-likely-still-have-feelings-for could be considered cardio.

Her thumbs hover over the keyboard, typing out a myriad of responses and subsequently deleting each one. After twenty minutes have passed, she's desperate enough to phone a friend (Raven) when her phone buzzes again.

 **Bellamy:** I'm giving a lecture next Tuesday at noon about Portraiture in Greek and Roman Sculpture. I've researched as much as I can find on the subject, but I was thinking maybe you could drop by (if you wanted) to talk to the students about what you know? I saw the sculptures you have at the gallery and thought you might be able to do the subject more justice than I can.

Before Clarke can properly respond, he sends another rushed text.

 **Bellamy:** You don't have to if you're not comfortable with it.

Clarke bites back a grin, despite herself. Despite everything.

 **Clarke:** i'd love to. seriously, that sounds amazing. I've been corresponding with an art historian in italy to make sure that the gallery is teaching the right historical context, and there's a ton of stuff I bet I could share.

 **Clarke:** you're wrong about something though. I don't think I'd be able to do the subject more justice than you can. it'll be hard to top lectures from a guy who loves the iliad more than alexander the great did.

She almost regrets sending it. It sounds like it's just barely edging on flirting, and she hopes he doesn't take it the wrong way.

He doesn't, of course. Because he's Bellamy, and he's always understood her naturally, simply, perfectly.

 **Bellamy:** Alexander the Great slept with his copy of the Iliad every night. I don't love it that much.

 **Clarke:** you're kidding, right? i've seen you cuddle that thing like it's a teddy bear.

 **Bellamy:** ….you done?

 **Clarke:** tuesday at noon. i'll be there.

 **Bellamy:** Room 302. I owe you.

With renewed energy, Clarke sets up her laptop and furiously studies up on the subject, the thoughts at the back of her mind flitting between hopes she hasn't let herself have in a long, long time.

A/N-thank you to all who have left comments, it seriously means more than you know. it's good to know i'm not the only one who loves angsty ex fics


	3. Chapter 3

The lecture hall is massive. There are rows swarming up the walls, with steps cascading in between. Sun filters in through the windows and long columns of light stretch across the scuffed floor.

She's early, so it's still empty, save for a hunched over Bellamy sitting at the lecturer's desk in the center of the room. Crisp, white papers flood the surface of his desk. He shuffles through them thoughtfully, twirling his glasses by their hinges in a way she knows is habitual.

She stands there, watching the way he flicks his wrist to readjust his sleeve as it rides up his forearm, and the way he sometimes mouths the words he's reading.

She doesn't remember everything she said to him while she was drunk, but what she does remember is enough to make her hesitate at the top of the stairs.

Drawing in a breath, she makes her way down the steps. He wouldn't have asked her to come unless he really meant it, and that's enough for her.

"Hey," she says with a tight smile, fingers gripping the small black binder she brought with her.

It's filled with scattered notes and scrawled facts that she can't quite bring herself to focus on right now. Not with the way Bellamy looks up at her and smiles, soft, like just the mere sight of her is a relief. Not with the way he stands up to greet her, asking her if she found the building okay and thanking her, again, for agreeing to do this for his class.

She would tell him that she's not just doing it for them, but she's afraid she's confessed too much to him already. And this delicate reconnection of theirs—it's being built on risk-draped conversations and tentative encounters. All it takes is one misstep, one misspoken word to shatter something that's already half-broken because of their past.

"You didn't tell me it would be this…big," she says, eyeing a few students shuffling in early and dotting the seats.

"Don't worry," he assures. "Half the kids don't show up anyway."

"If you say so."

She draws in a breath, trying and failing to match his easy expression. With anyone else, she might try harder to mask the vulnerability she's feeling, but—

Bellamy would see through it anyway.

He reaches up and squeezes her shoulder comfortingly. The gesture—sudden and familiar—surprises the both of them. She looks up at him, breath hitching in her throat.

They keep doing this—accidentally slipping into an intimacy that should've been forgotten by now.

Bellamy furrows his brows, opening his mouth like he's ready to apologize for crossing a non-existent line they both keep pretending is between them.

She reaches up and covers his hand before he can say anything. Her thumb brushes against his warm skin, and the gesture says _thank you_ and _I'll be fine_ and even quietly, tentatively, _I missed this. I missed you._

The sound of backpacks unzipping and folders slapping against the surfaces of desks reminds them where they are.

They break apart, Bellamy clearing his throat and Clarke running a hand through her hair.

He rubs his hand behind his neck. "I'll, uh, I'll just introduce you about halfway through and then you can—" he nods at her binder, "—do your thing. If that's okay."

She smiles up at him, and this time it's genuine. He gestures to a seat on the front row, where she can settle in and wait for the class to start.

The lecture begins, and Clarke is entranced.

The deep thrum of Bellamy's voice rumbles through the space of the lecture hall easily. Everyone—even the languid kids in the back row—leans forward to follow his movements.

The words spill from his lips easily, beautifully. Clarke finds herself opening her binder to a blank sheet of paper, entirely intending to jot down any interesting tidbits that she can bring back to the gallery.

She ends up sketching him instead.

Her penciled letters turn into swirls of hair before she can stop them. The graphite, thin-edged drawn line grazes down the paper in effortless lines of movement that match the way his hands gesture smoothly through the air in a way that _begs_ to be followed. The sharp angle of his jaw contrasts against the fluidity of his hair, matching the intensity of his eyes, and she ends up filling the page with him.

She can't help it. He's beautiful.

Just before he introduces her to the now near-filled lecture hall, he looks over and catches her sketching him.

She looks up, dangles the pencil between her teeth, and shrugs. He smirks at her, and she's instantly transported back to six years ago, when he was the TA for her Political Science class and their friendship was blooming in a way they never expected it to.

They'd spend every lecture sharing stupid little glances and smirks, having a million nonverbal conversations through quirked brows and good-natured eye rolls. Afterwards, she'd cling to his arm and they'd walk up to the cute little café on the roof of the University Library, where they'd spend hours doing homework and talking and pretending they weren't falling in love with each other.

Their eyes meet, and she knows he's remembering the same thing.

Voice smothered in fondness and shaped by quiet gratitude, Bellamy introduces her to the class.

She stands. As she's making her way over to the lecturer's desk, he passes her, placing a hand on the small of her back for the briefest of seconds.

The feeling of his hand on her back brings back memories of rough kisses between bookshelves and teeth scraping against skin beneath the muted lights of a bar and the sound of his gravelly voice gasping her name on hot summer nights.

She stumbles through her self-introduction, trying to blink away the memories filling her mind.

Luckily, Bellamy's students are curious, and there are a few whose hands seem to be continually and tirelessly raised. Once she's collected herself, she regains her presentational footing and answers their questions with a natural confidence and ease.

A few students ask about Greco-Roman sculpture, but the majority of their questions are centered around the gallery itself. They ask her all about it—curious about a particular exhibit the gallery is currently displaying, interested in the various pieces of artwork the gallery's curated over the years from artists both globally and locally. Clarke ends up pulling up the gallery's website and projecting it to the class, showing them where they can find ticket prices and event details and workshop notices.

Clarke glances over at Bellamy.

 _This_ is why he invited her to guest lecture for his class. Not just to teach the students about Portraiture in Greco-Roman sculpture, but to introduce the gallery to students who had no idea it even existed and who would be more than interested in visiting and collaborating with it.

Monty or Raven must've told Bellamy that the gallery's attendance had been low now that the summer was over, and that they had all been wracking their brains trying to find new ways to encourage people, and schools particularly, to attend. The Anniversary Gala had been one of those ideas, but its attendees had been people who were already familiar with the gallery, not new visitors.

She trails off while speaking. Bellamy is penning notes down in his weathered, worn leather notebook. The room goes quiet, and the silence makes him look up at her.

His expression is one filled with a confident assurance, his warm eyes encouraging her to continue.

She doesn't know whether she should curse his name or kiss him until he forgets it.

Before she can decide, a student raises her hand. Clarke clears her throat and calls on her.

The rest of the lecture goes by smoothly, and she dismisses the class gracefully at Bellamy's nod. Most of the students leave, but a few stay, forming a line and eager to ask Clarke more about the gallery.

Bellamy sits patiently in the front row, twirling a red pen between his fingers. His glasses slip down his nose, and he catches her eye every now and then while he grades papers.

A half hour passes and the last student leaves, finally.

Clarke lets out a monumental sigh, sinking onto the desk in front of her, burying her face in her arms.

She hears a rustle of papers and the popping of knees as Bellamy stands. The sound makes her smile into her arms, and she resists the urge to make a joke about him being an old man as he comes to stand beside her.

"Clarke?"

She looks up at him through strands of curtained blond hair.

"Thank you," she says, sincere.

"I think I'm the one who should be thanking you," he replies. "I haven't seen my students participate that much since syllabus day."

"No, Bellamy." She shakes her head and straightens. She looks into his brown, home-colored eyes and finds herself filled yet again with an insatiable, endless longing for him. " _Thank you_."

He blinks at her, shifting his weight and nodding. He helps her grab her things, his eyes downcast and contemplative.

"The café's still there, you know," he mentions, an unspoken question tucked between the syllables.

She grabs his arm. It's impulsive and probably inappropriate, all things considered, but it feels so _right_. It feels so _safe._

"What are we waiting for, then?"

He doesn't even try to hide his smile.

* * *

"I can't believe this place is still here," she says, unwrapping her sandwich.

It's just warm enough to sit outside. They sit on a bench settled between two quivering trees, a cool breeze snaking beneath their legs. The sun hangs lazily in the sky.

They sit there, the bag of food between them, and try not to notice how easy it is to be here, together.

"I haven't been here in forever," Bellamy muses.

His fingers brush against hers as they both reach for their straws, lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

"You haven't?" she asks, frowning. "But you've been teaching here for years now."

"I don't know." He shrugs, setting his drink beside him and twirling the straw mindlessly. "It just never felt right."

She doesn't have to ask why. This was always _their_ place. A place drenched in memories they had made together over the course of years and years. They'd spent seasons here—making memories through soft spring rains and hazy summer suns, through nipping fall breezes and grey winter skies.

The thought makes her heart ache. She fights back the urge move the bag that's separating them and settle in against him, resting her head against his shoulder like she used to, to entwine their fingers and feel warmth bloom in her chest.

She won't lose him again, though. Not when they're just building something so fragile and so _delicate_ that it doesn't even have a name yet.

"They changed the logo on the napkins," she blurts, holding one over to him. It's the first thing that comes to her mind, and she half-expects Bellamy to look at her, confused, and ask her what the hell is wrong with her.

He doesn't, of course.

Instead, he snorts a laugh. He takes the napkin and studies it like it's an important piece of art, tilting his head.

"I liked the old ones better," he admits, handing it back over to her.

She smiles into her sandwich. "Me too."

* * *

A/N- this one's a little shorter and took longer to upload because it wasn't working with me and i was really struggling with it for some reason.

now that this is out of the way, though, future chapters will be more fully fleshed out and angsty and heart-wrenching as we journey to the happy ending.

thank you to everyone who has reviewed/followed/faved! hope everyone has a wonderful weekend.

(also if you caught the zutara reference seriously come find me on tumblr: funfanfin : and we can commiserate over shipping non-canon ships)


	4. Chapter 4

They start texting after that. Casual, short conversations that, at first, are under the guise of sharing art-related information. Their conversations never quite seem to stay on topic for long, however.

He texts her one night while she's curled up with her laptop on a couch that is far too big and far too empty and far too cold for her liking.

 **Bellamy:** My students won't stop asking me about you

 **Clarke:** oh yeah? what are they saying?

 **Bellamy:** You want the truth or…?

 **Clarke:** duh

 **Bellamy:** They asked if we were dating, and if we weren't, if they could have your number. I told them no not anymore and no, respectively. Unless you're interested in dating a sophomore who regularly wears 'Cool Story Babe, Make Me A Sandwich' shirts.

She stares at that for a moment, surprised at how easy it is for him to mention anything even slightly relevant to the fact that they are exes. It's taken her four years to even think about it, and even now she struggles with talking about it.

Her lip wobbles a little when she forces herself to smile at the rest of the text. He's over her, of course he is. Of course it's easy for him to casually mention it. Of course their relationship didn't affect him the way it was still affecting her.

 **Clarke:** definitely not interested, no. sorry my visit is causing you some awkward conversations, it wasn't my intention

 **Bellamy:** You don't have to apologize, Clarke. It's better than them trying to set me up with their third cousin (who also happens to be a 68 year old with four grandkids). And honestly, it doesn't bother me. It kind of reminds me of when everyone would assume we were dating way back before we were even really friends.

She bites her lip, shoving her laptop to the side and turning up the brightness on her phone like it will somehow help her think more clearly.

 **Clarke:** if it's any consolation, every time i see that sweet old lady at the theater on 32nd she always asks me why that 'broad-shouldered, agile young freckled boy' isn't with me.

His reply takes a few minutes.

 **Bellamy:** What do you tell her?

 **Bellamy:** Sorry. You don't have to answer that.

 **Clarke:** it's okay. i tell her the same thing i tell everyone else.

 **Clarke:** i was young and stupid. i made a choice because i thought it was the only one i had and didn't realize i lost my best friend until it was too late.

He doesn't reply for an hour, and she's on the verge of panic-buying four hundred dollars worth of cooking supplies on Amazon when her phone finally chimes.

 **Bellamy:** It's not too late. You know that, right?

She types out a reply through vision blurred with tears.

 **Clarke:** i'll keep that in mind.

She ends up buying four new baking sheets, a spice rack she really doesn't need, and nine different colored spatulas. She adds on a copy of the Iliad, and hates herself with every click to the checkout page.

She's an idiot for thinking she can ever get over him.

* * *

 _A few days later_

 _"You've reached the number of Bellamy Blake. Please leave your name and number after the beep."_

"Uh, hi. This is Clarke. My number is—wait, why do you even need my number? Caller ID has been a thing for like ten years now, Bellamy. You should be able to see the number of anyone who calls you. Then again, I had to teach you how to add contacts to your phone way back when. And now I'm rambling. I just wanted to— _BEEP."_

She sighs and redials.

"You've reached the number of Bellamy Blake. Please leave your—"

"—number after the beep," she mocks. The beep sounds, sharp and final, and she takes a breath and straightens. "Hey. It's me again. I can already hear you laughing at me for having to leave a second message. I'd just text you but this is kind of time sensitive, so if you could get back to me as soon as possible, that'd be— _BEEP."_

She lets out a cry of frustration and dials again.

 _"You've reached the number of Bellamy Blake. Please leave your name and number after the beep."_

"Okay, why is your voicemail thing so short?! Look, I'll get to the point. We're having a surprise birthday party for Monty at that new bar downtown, Alpha Station, tonight at 7pm. I would have invited you earlier, but Jasper forget to plan the party until today—Monty's birthday. Anyways, if you could come, that'd be— _BEEP."_

She chucks her phone onto the other end of the couch and gives up.

* * *

She gets to Alpha Station fifteen minutes early and waits at the bar, twirling her straw around her ice-filled glass and feeling more than a little ridiculous.

She's wearing a dress. It's navy blue, and she's been told it brings out the bluest blues of her eyes. It fits her well, she has to admit, the way it blooms out at her waist in a classic, graceful way. Still, she can't help but feel out of place among the jean-clad bargoers.

With a sigh, she scrolls through her phone. Bellamy hadn't replied to any of her calls. Raven, Jasper, and the rest of the crew were on their way, and Harper's plans to kidnap Monty and bring him to the bar were in place.

She should go home and change into something more casual before everyone shows up. She doesn't even know why she thought it was a good idea to wear the dress in the first place.

She lets out a sigh. She knows why. She's wearing it for Bellamy, a fact that she wishes weren't true but can't outright deny. What is she expecting? A movie-like scene from those cheesy romantic comedies—the ones where the guy sees the girl and loses his ability to form coherent sentences because he suddenly realizes how in love with her he is?

She rolls her eyes at the thought. What is she, a thirteen-year old with a crush?

The door opens. Before she even glances back, she knows Bellamy is there. She just feels his presence, like her soul is attuned to his. He walks in, wearing a grey dress shirt and holding a small gift box, his hair a perfect mess. His eyes meet hers, and she swears she sees him let out a sigh of relief as he comes to join her at the bar.

She isn't a thirteen-year old with a crush, she realizes. She's a twenty-five-year old with a crush.

"Hey," she greets with a soft smile. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"Sorry I missed your calls," he says, serious. He doesn't joke about the several voicemails she left him, or even return her smile. "It's been a rough day."

Her eyes widen. It's the twelfth. It's been five years since Octavia left.

She reaches out to touch his forearm.

"Bellamy…"

"It's okay," he assures, but they both know it's a lie. He puts his hand over her own, brushing her knuckles. The weight of his hand on hers feels like some kind of silent, unspoken promise. "Clarke, it's okay."

"You haven't..." she worries her lip. "You haven't heard from her?"

The look on his face—resigned, tired—tells her the answer to her question.

"I'm sorry," she says, sincere. She pulls her hand away, putting her head in her hands. "I can't believe I forgot and invited you today of all days and—"

"Clarke." His voice is gentle, gentle enough that she looks up at him. The exhausted lines of his face soften, and his eyes sweep over her. "You look beautiful."

She smiles, in spite of everything, and wraps her fingers around her glass of water to keep them from reaching out to touch him again—to smooth out the crease in his collar or trail her nails through the dark curls at the back of his head.

"You sure you're okay?" she asks, unable to keep the worry from her voice.

He opens his mouth to respond, but he's cut off by the sound of Raven coming through the door.

"Clarke!"

They turn and watch the way the bar-goers instinctively clear a path for Raven. Her walk is determined, confident, even with the way her braced leg trails just a second behind. Her smile, dazzling, brightens even more when she sees that Clarke isn't alone and that the man sitting next to her isn't a stranger, but Bellamy.

They joke about how typical it is for Jasper to wait to the last day to plan the party, and how Monty probably is well aware of the surprise. They grab a booth and the others steadily file in—Jasper and Maya, Monroe, Fox, Mel, Miller, Bryan, as well as a few of their friends from the gallery.

Clarke gets separated from Bellamy, and she can't stop sneaking glances at him. She tells herself its only because she's worried, but deep down, it's because every time she looks over at him, his eyes are already on her, and she's missed the feel of it. She's missed him. And with every little matched glance, she feels an unrelenting hope burn up the edges of her heart.

Harper gets to the bar last, guiding a blindfolded Monty in front of her. She unties the blindfold and the entire, crowded booth bombards him with Surprise!'s and poorly sung, scattered Happy Birthday chants that make him grin and roll his eyes at the same time.

Clarke glances around at her group of friends and she's struck by the level of joy she feels. It feels like it's been years since they've all hung out together—everyone, including Bellamy—and it finally feels whole. Complete.

After the drinks come, a few people slip out of the booth to go dance, and others take their place. Clarke ends up squeezed between Bellamy and Miller, but she only notices the feel of Bellamy's thigh against hers, and the warmth of his arm pressed against her own.

She keeps checking on him, worried at the way his smile sometimes doesn't quite reach his eyes. And, even more worryingly, when he does smile, it's smothered as soon as he realizes he's enjoying himself, like he should be punishing himself instead of having fun.

She reaches beneath the table and finds his hand, slipping her fingers between his and squeezing.

They don't look at each other, they don't share a look of understanding between them. But his thumb traces soft circles against her skin before he lets go, and any worries she had about crossing any lines disappear.

A soft smile relaxes his face, and she feels like she can breathe a little easier knowing that this part of them hadn't been lost—this mutual support, the offering of comfort, the sharing of burdens too heavy to carry alone.

The rest of the night flows as smoothly as the drinks from their glasses do. At some point, a drunk Raven drags a tipsy Clarke to the dance floor, even though she knows her leg will kill her in the morning. They end up clinging to each other, swaying and slurring about always picking each other first, no matter what.

Jasper drunk-proposes to Harper _for_ Monty, Roan shows up and Raven and him disappear for a good half hour, and Miller and Monroe arm wrestle.

Bellamy, shaking his head every now and then at the antics of his drunk friends, sits in the booth, tense and tired. He stares down at his third drink, which he downs easily.

When Clarke notices that the alcohol is only contributing to his sadness, she slides in next to him. She nudges her shoulder against his own.

"You're sad," she guesses. Her words are slurred, but only slightly. She's not that drunk. Her body leans in close to his, and she reaches up a hand, brushing a stray curl of hair away from his dark eyes so she can see them better. "You. Are. Sad."

He grabs her wrist, bringing her hand against his cheek. Closing his eyes with a sigh, he leans into her touch like it's the only thing keeping him grounded at the moment.

"I told you I'm not."

"You're a bad liar," she muses, fond. Alcohol buzzes beneath her skin, and the closer she is to Bellamy, the more intoxicated she feels. Her thumb swipes over his bottom lip, and she leans closer. "A bad liar and a good kisser."

He snorts, opening his eyes and looking at her.

"You're drunk, Clarke."

"And pretty," she adds, smoothing her dress out. It's wrinkled a little bit at the edges, but it doesn't matter. It's still blue, it still compliments her figure, and it still makes him stare at her.

"And pretty," he concedes, soft.

She rests her head against his shoulder with a tired exhale. She fits there, she notices. Not that this is new information to her or anything. She's always known how easily they fit together…she'd just forgotten how perfectly.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles.

He doesn't ask what for. She feels him press his lips against her hair.

"I'm sorry, too," he sighs.

They stay like that, leaning against each other and in a drunken haze, until Harper, the only sober one, helps them get into her car.

"No, Bellamy, this is for my seatbelt," Clarke tries to clarify when they've settled into the car, guiding Bellamy's hand to where his seatbelt is supposed to click into. "This is for yours."

He struggles, but eventually gets it. Immediately, he goes to help her, even though Harper had already buckled her in before she left to go help the others find rides.

"Thanks," Clarke giggles, patting his searching hand. "But mine's already in. See?"

He squints his eyes and when he's seemingly satisfied, he leans back. Running a hand over his face, he looks out the window, into the dimly lit parking lot.

"I miss her," he confesses through an alcohol-rasped voice. She watches the way his Adam's apple bobs. His jaw is outlined by the cool blue glow of the street light. It tightens slightly. "I miss you too."

She sobers a little.

"I'm right here, Bell. And I'm not going anywhere."

"But you left before."

It isn't said with any malice, or bitterness, just matter-of-factly. It's worse, somehow.

"That was before." She swallows, trying to gather her alcohol-blurred thoughts. "This is—this is now."

"Now," he repeats. "And now…now we're friends?"

"Friends," she assures, not sure if she's elated or disappointed at the realization. _Friends. Just friends? Only ever friends_? "That's good, right?"

"S'good," he confirms, resting his head against hers. He exhales, his hand finding her own and intertwining their fingers. "Everything with you is good."

She blinks down at their joined hands. It looks right, it feels right, so she doesn't pull away.

Harper jumps into the driver's seat.

"You guys okay back there?"

They mumble nonsense in response.

They spend the rest of the drive like that—leaning against each other half-asleep, Harper glancing back at them in the rear-view mirror and smiling.

* * *

A/N- thanks again to all those reading and leaving reviews. you are amazing. thanks for loving bellarke as much as i do. hope you're enjoying it so far! i'm thinking two or so more chapters.


	5. Chapter 5

Bellamy and Clarke don't discuss the events of that night, especially not how they ended up holding hands during the car ride home, or how his arm was wrapped around her shoulders, or how she dramatically kissed him on the cheek when they said goodnight.

He never mentions it, so she assumes that maybe he was too drunk to remember. But then she'll catch his gaze and see something there—something that gives her the dangerous hope that maybe he does remember, and more importantly, that maybe he doesn't regret it or consider it an alcohol-induced fluke.

The group starts hanging out together again—all of them, and it's relieving to everyone. There's no more careful treading of words or having to omit certain details around Bellamy or Clarke, and it brings a new lightness to the group that they all readily accept and don't question.

Clarke doesn't mean to, but she always ends up next to Bellamy when the group hangs out. Every single time. She just _gravitates_ towards him instinctively. She thinks it's the same for him.

During movie nights, they're sitting beside each other or bumping shoulders in the kitchen while microwaving absurd amounts of popcorn. When they go rock climbing, they end up being partners, assuring each other and trying not to touch the other but using the excuse of the activity to let their fingers linger a little longer than they would otherwise. The group decides to go to the planetarium for Raven's birthday, and Bellamy and Clarke spend two hours talking about space and pointing out constellations to each other in the Night Sky Dome until they notice that the rest of the group had gone to dinner without them.

When Raven slyly calls Clarke out on it, she vehemently defends herself. Bellamy was her best friend long before he was her boyfriend, and she's missed him. She's missed talking to him and laughing with him and being able to give him a look and have an entire nonverbal conversation with him. She's missed the closeness she has with him, one that seems to have only strengthened with time.

She's just—missed him. More than she thought she did.

That's all.

Besides, whenever they hang out, they're always with their friends. It's not like they're going out to lunch dates or purposefully spending time apart from the group.

It's totally, one hundred percent, absolutely, entirely platonic.

That's what she tells herself at least, until she has a movie night at her apartment and everyone leaves but Bellamy. They're caught up in a conversation about college. Through good-natured groans and fond eye-rolls, they reminisce about the old, leaky apartment they shared, about the time they snuck into the campus rec center in the middle of the night to swim in the pool, about the countless late nights spent hunched over papers and textbooks.

They're on her couch. Her feet have somehow landed on his lap, and she swats a pillow at him when he brings up the time she mistakenly called the exterminators because she thought she saw a rat in their kitchen (it was a bunched-up sock).

"It was four in the morning during finals week," she reminds him, shaking her head and grinning. "You would have thought it was a rat too, especially after Monty found one in Raven's apartment the week before!"

He squeezes her calf.

"I never got that sock back from the exterminator," he muses.

It's comfortable, just the two of them, sitting here in her living room. It's intimate in a way she can't explain. Like she doesn't have to act a certain way or be a certain person. He's always just accepted her exactly as she is, flaws and all, and the relief that that brings is just as intoxicating as it was four years ago.

His thumb strokes the smooth skin of her leg without thinking. He's looking at her with a small smile on his face, one that she recognizes is rare and genuine.

She wants to tell him that she loves him, that she never stopped loving him, that she'll never stop loving him. She wants to move over to him, to curl into his side and feel him press a kiss against her hair.

"It's getting late," she says instead. "I don't want you to be tired for your lecture tomorrow."

There are other ways to say _I love you_ , after all.

He squeezes her calf one last time and nods with a sigh. She walks him to the door, and keeps her arms folded in front of her to remind herself not to reach out and grab his hand.

He shrugs on his jacket—his stupid, ugly, brown jacket—and opens the door.

"Goodnight Clarke," he says, soft.

His voice, the way his words are said with such gentleness, breaks her.

She steps towards him and hugs him, forceful, before she can talk herself out of it. It's the first time they've hugged—really hugged—in years, and it takes him a second to respond.

But his arms finally wrap around her middle, his fingers curling into the spaces between her ribs. Her heart almost can't take it—being this close to him, breathing him in, feeling his chest rise and fall.

She clings to him, pressing her lips against the junction at his shoulder and neck. He rests his chin on her shoulder, nuzzling her hair. His hold on her tightens, like he's trying to savor every second before they inevitably have to let go.

"Goodnight Bell," she whispers into his skin, holding back tears and trying to keep her voice from shaking.

When they break apart, Bellamy can't look her in the eyes. He hesitates slightly, eyebrows furrowing and shifting his weight slightly before leaving.

She watches him go to his car, heart yearning for more. But she knows that she chose to left him, she knows that she doesn't have the right to expect him to forget that, she knows that this is the course they've fallen onto.

It doesn't make it hurt any less, though.

* * *

She doesn't see him, after that.

She _sees_ him, sure—hunched over in the cereal aisle at the grocery store or reading the paper on a bench outside that hole-in-the-wall coffee shop down the street—but she doesn't _see_ him.

He hasn't shown up to any of the group hangouts lately. Preparing his students for finals is consuming his life. At least that's what Monty tells Clarke.

She decides to text him, more than a little worried about the whole situation.

 **Clarke:** you okay? haven't seen you in a bit.

He doesn't text back until the day after, and his reply is short. Formal.

 **Bellamy:** Fine, thanks.

She stares at the text for ten minutes, confused. She wonders if she did something wrong to drive him away again.

 **Clarke:** that's good. if you ever need a break from prepping for finals, I know this great chinese restaurant? we could get takeout and binge watch parks and rec. if you wanted to.

 **Bellamy:** Thanks for the offer, but right now I just need to focus on helping my students prepare for finals.

 **Bellamy:** Sorry.

She doesn't text him back.

* * *

"I don't know what happened," she says to Raven one night while they're looking for something to watch on Netflix. "I must've said something or done something—" she sighs, looking down at her painted, chipped nails. "For a little bit it seemed—I don't know it just seemed like we were _finally_ okay, you know? Like things were finally going back to normal."

Raven adjusts her braced leg on the couch. "Maybe that's what scared him."

"What?" Clarke asks, frowning. "Us being friends again?"

She shrugs a shoulder, browsing through Netflix.

"When you guys started hanging out again, it was just like old times. Freakily so. It was like you guys hadn't skipped a beat. You were just back to being Clarke&Bellamy again. It was weird, but we all knew it would happen."

"But we weren't dating or anything," Clarke protests. "We never even talked about that—about any of it. We were just friends."

Raven raises an eyebrow, glancing up at her.

"You and Bellamy are incapable of being _just_ friends. You couldn't do it back in college and you clearly can't do it now." She leans back into the couch. "I mean, honestly, Clarke. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you aren't still ridiculously in love with him? That you haven't even considered the possibility of you two getting back together?"

Clarke opens her mouth to protest. With a sigh, she glances down at her entwined fingers. The tears come before she can stop them.

"I—I don't know what to do," she confesses through a half-whisper. "I can't lose him again. But part of me feels like I already have."

"You never lost him," Raven tells her, uncharacteristically soft. "But if you don't talk to him about this—about how you feel," she warns, "you might lose him now."

With a steadying inhale, Clarke nods.

"Okay," she breathes. "I'll talk to him."

* * *

She frets and overthinks and worries for the entirety of the next day at work. The projects she's working on sit in the corner of her office, abandoned. She shuts her door, sends every single call to voicemail, and is even desperate enough to google ' _How do I tell my ex-boyfriend I'm still in love with him?'_

Five o'clock rolls around, and she grabs her phone. No more overthinking, she tells herself. No more scripted conversations.

 **Clarke:** hey. do you remember that big tree we used to hang out under? by independence lake? the willow.

His reply, to her relief, is near instantaneous.

 **Bellamy:** Of course. Why?

She bites her lip.

 **Clarke:** there are some things I want to talk to you about. i'll be at that tree at 6.

 **Clarke:** if you don't show, i'll understand.

With that, she gathers her things, throws her phone in her bag without another glance, and heads home to change.


	6. Chapter 6

She was going to wear a dress. She was going to curl her hair and redo her work-smudged makeup and bring a note filled with all of the things she wanted to say.

Instead, she just drives out to the lake and sits by the water beneath the flowing, ancient willow tree. Her hair is pulled back from her face, the rest of the blonde waves tumbling down her jacket-clad shoulders. The dirt is probably ruining her jeans, but she can hardly bring herself to care.

She sits there, staring into the water and remembering the hours her and Bellamy used to spend here, talking, laughing, loving.

The sun melts into the trees surrounding the lake, and lights the world a brilliant, scarlet. She watches the way the sunset is rippled and distorted on the lake's surface, and she's struck by how beautiful it is.

"Clarke?"

She closes her eyes and smiles at the sound of his voice behind her, at the way it fills her with relief.

She stands, taking one last look at the bleeding water, and walks back to him. He's standing beneath the willow, his hair lifting in the cool evening wind. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he doesn't know what to do with them.

And suddenly, words aren't enough to convey the depth of feeling she has for him.

"Bellamy," she starts, hopeful and determined. "I—"

"I got offered a job at Delphi U," he interrupts, glancing out at the lake, face steadfast, unreadable. "Head of the History Department."

She blinks at him and he hesitates.

"I'm taking it, Clarke. I'd be stupid not to."

"What?" she breathes, faltering. "But you—your whole life is _here_. Your friends and Ark U and your students—"

He shifts his weight, not looking her in the eyes.

"There isn't anything here for me here. Not anymore," he confesses, firm like he's trying to convince himself of his own lie. "I need to move on. It's time."

Clarke is so thrown off by the events that she can't find any words to say. They're all stuck in her brain—a bunch of amorphous images and feelings and thoughts she wishes she could tell him but she doesn't know how to articulate.

"I'm sorry," he says, gravelly voice rough in her ears.

She shakes her head at him, eyes burning with tears. She wants to say _You don't get to leave me_ , but she can't. She doesn't have the right to, not after she left him.

"Bellamy," she pleads, wishing it were enough. "Delphi is _two hours_ away. Do you even—"

"It's already done," he says, and her heart breaks again at the way his brown, resigned eyes look at her. "I sent my acceptance notice this morning. I leave after the semester ends."

"And you came here to tell me all of this," she asks, bitter. "To tell me you're leaving."

He looks away, into where the sun has disappeared into the trees.

"I came here to say goodbye."

Throat tight, she nods, letting out mirthless half-laugh.

"That's it then. Just like that, you're leaving," she says, realizing how they've switched places. She marches up to him, her hurt masked by sudden, piercing anger. "Well I came here to tell you that I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you don't think that there's anything here for you. I'm sorry that I came back into your life just to drive you away again. I'm sorry that I thought—for one second—that we could be friends again." She doesn't even bother wiping away the tears that come. "I'm sorry, Bellamy. For all of it. For leaving you the way I did four years ago, for letting you go, for giving up on us because I was scared. I regret it and I'll regret it for the rest of my life, and I'm sorry for that. But you shouldn't just _abandon_ the life you have here because of what happened between us."

He doesn't bother brushing away his tears either. He closes his eyes with a sigh, tired.

"Clarke, this isn't about that," he argues half-heartedly.

"It is, and you and I both know it." She looks at him, and her voice softens. "You were my best friend, Bellamy. And I loved you _so much_." Her voice breaks. "I still—"

"Don't," he pleads, shaking his head. "Don't say it."

"Why not? Because you know it's—"

"Because it's a lie, Clarke." He sighs. "Look at us. We're not in college anymore. We're not two kids trying to figure out what love is or isn't. We're just two people—two people whose paths never should have crossed but did anyway."

"How can you say that?" she cries. "After everything we've been through? How can you just—act like it was nothing?"

"It was _everything_ ," he stresses, definitive and unflinching.

"Then why—"

"Because I can't do this again, Clarke," he says, voice resounding and emotions raw. The intensity of it sends her a step backwards, blinking. He sighs, running a hand over his face. "The more time I spend with you," he wets his lips, looking up at her, "the more I realize that I will never stop loving you. And I can't—" his voice breaks, and he takes a breath. "I can't watch you walk away again. I can't."

She looks down, his words echoing through her. The words she wants to say are caught in her throat, in a sob that she doesn't know if she's strong enough to choke down.

"Go," she says, hating the way Bellamy's eyebrows furrow at her at like he can't believe what she's saying. "Go to Delphi, then."

"What?"

"Go to Delphi and—and if you want, I'll come with you." She rushes out the words before she can think twice. "I'll—I'll leave the gallery and find a job in the city and—"

"Why?"

"Because _I love you_ , Bellamy. I never stopped loving you," she confesses through a strong, shaky voice. "And I won't leave you again. These past few months—just being with you again…" she looks up, her vision blurred with tears. "I never stopped, Bellamy."

Before she can blink, he's kissing her. She doesn't respond, not at first. It doesn't take long, though, before her lips move against his instinctually, fueled by years and years of yearning and longing and _wanting_.

The kiss is delicate, careful, but his lips against hers feel so _familiar_ , so _right_ , and she knows that she'll never stop needing this. Needing him.

They break apart, resting their foreheads against each other. His thumbs brush away the tears sliding down her cheekbones, and she reaches up and curls her fingers around his wrists.

She reaches up and kisses him again. The feeling of his lips against her own—more demanding and desperate this time—is near intoxicating. She pulls him closer, needing to express everything she hasn't been able to say for years.

"Bellamy," she breathes when they part for air, and the way she says his name tells him everything he needs to know.

She loves him. She loves him _. She loves him._

He pulls her close, but instead of kissing her again, he wraps his arms around her and hugs her, burying his face into the crook of her neck and tightening his grip on her like he's been holding back for years.

They stand there, hugging, for longer than they care to keep track of. It's different, Clarke thinks, from the way the world wants exes to get back together—with rough kisses and lust and torn clothes.

It's soft, colored with love and longing and selflessness.

It's like coming home.

She holds onto him, breathing him in, feeling relief wash over her.

She wouldn't want it any other way.

* * *

They spend the night at Bellamy's house. After hours of making up for lost time with gentle kisses and meaningful touches, they lay in his bed and cling to each other. Clarke tangles her legs around his, and his fingers run through the ends of her tousled hair. They fall asleep like that, together.

Clarke wakes up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water. She walks through his house, amazed at how everything is the same and different all at once. She nearly drops her glass of water when she sees that he still has a framed picture of them in his living room, placed carefully besides pictures of Octavia, of Lincoln, of his mother, of their group of friends.

She stands there, fingering the edge of the frame, smiling at it until she hears footsteps upstairs.

She puts her glass in the sink and heads up to find a disheveled, frantic Bellamy stumbling down the stairs.

"Clarke," he says, breathless, when he sees her. His whole body relaxes at the sight of her, and he exhales. "I thought you left."

Her throat goes tight, and she hopes that one day, she'll be able to prove to him that she has no plans on leaving him—ever.

"I was getting a glass of water," she assures him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. "That's all."

He nods, but there's still a worried crease in his forehead. She leans up and kisses him, soft and steady. He kisses her back, his hands gripping her waist, thumbs resting over her exposed hip bones.

"Sorry," he says, like it's his fault for worrying, for fearing the worst. "I just—"

She shakes her head, her nose brushing against his.

" _Hey._ We'll figure this out," she promises him, entwining their fingers and leading him up the stairs.

Before she can, he scoops her up into his arms, carrying her bridal style up the stairs. She lets out a surprised laugh, burying her face against his shirt.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asks, light-hearted.

He doesn't answer, just smiles at her. He carries her past his bedroom and into a room that used to be a guest room years ago.

"Close your eyes," he says after he sets her down. He opens the door and guides her inside. "And…open them."

She does, and all thoughts fly from her mind. The room is covered in blank canvases and a huge, blank wall. There are paints and pencils and brushes scattered on a desk by the window.

"What—what is this?" she asks, walking into the middle of the room and looking around, awestruck.

"This is yours," he says softly. He runs a hand behind his neck. "Before we broke up, this was going to be a surprise for your birthday but—" he breaks off, smiling ruefully. "Anyway, I could never bring myself to get rid of any of it and turn it back into a guest room or something. It's just been sitting here. Waiting to be used. Waiting for you."

Clarke lets out a surprised half-sob, half-laugh.

"You kept it—all these years. Why?"

He just looks at her. "You know why, Clarke."

"I don't deserve this," she protests, but her fingers are already curled around the brushes on the desk. She turns around. "Thank you, Bell."

He nods, leaning against the doorway. He watches her, the way she's already picking out colors she wants to try out and canvases she wants to start painting on.

"I always—I always hoped you would use this room one day. But I never—" he wets his lips. "I never thought I'd actually see you here."

She puts the paints down and walks over to him.

"I'm here now," she breathes, bringing his hand up to her lips and kissing his knuckles. "I'm here," she repeats, kissing his cheek. "I'm here," she whispers against his skin, kissing the scar on his upper lip.

His eyes flutter shut.

"How many times are you going to say it?" he asks, voice rough with want.

She runs her hands over his chest, kissing the spot beneath his ear before whispering, "Until you believe it."

He kisses her, picking her up easily and turning them around so her back is pressed up against the wall. She wraps her legs around his waist, and his hands grip the underside of her thighs.

He presses kisses down the curve of her jaw and the bare skin of her neck, tongue flitting out and swiping across her skin.

"Again," he commands against her skin, nipping at her collarbone.

She runs her fingers through his curled, mussed hair.

"I'm here, Bell," she says, her voice embarrassingly breathless. She tugs at the ends of his hair, and he lets out a hot, muffled moan into her shoulder. "And I love you."

Without another word, he carries her to his bed.

* * *

The next morning, he calls and refuses the offer from Delphi University.

They both call in sick to work.

Clarke fills two of the canvases with paintings of Bellamy. She paints his star-kissed skin, biting back soft smiles whenever he comes and checks on her to sneak kisses between brushstrokes.

Bellamy checks on her often.

Clarke sends Raven a bathroom selfie of her wearing Bellamy's Ark U t-shirt.

 _I talked to him_ , is all it says.

* * *

A/N-*walks in after weeks after not updating hoping you remember this story* hey...how's it going.

sorry for the lateness. real life stuff (like depression woohoo) got in the way of my creativity for awhile, but i'm doing good now and decided i should probably post these.

i wanted to add a lot more to this story and make it a lot longer, but every time i tried, i'd psyche myself out and then i just realized "this is just fanfiction. post whatever you want and don't feel bad about it", because isn't that what fanfic is? stuff that we love and post unashamedly, even if it sucks?

anyways. thanks for sticking with the story and me, for all the kudos/comments/reviews. I may do an epilogue, we'll see. 3


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